Forfeits, Fears, and Demigods
by scorpiaux
Summary: After a 100 year hiatus, Katara discovers her new editor-in-chief is the famed Avatar – only after she realizes he's sweet on her. If she wants to keep her job, no one can know about their office rendezvous, or Aang's secret status. But truths are hard to hide. Modern AU. Main: Kataang, Tokka. Rated M for adult themes.
1. Gaoxing Lunwen Press

_**Forfeits, Fears, and Demigods **_

_**Summary**: After a 100 year hiatus, Katara discovers her new editor-in-chief is the famed Avatar – only after she discovers he's sweet on her. If she wants to keep her job, no one can know about their office rendezvous, or Aang's secret status. Modern AU, Multi-Chaptered. Kataang, Tokka. Rated M._

* * *

_**Author's Note**: I have three fictions on this website I feel inclined to apologize for: "Fortune Cookies," "Big City White Boys," and "What Happens in the Swamp" – all unfinished, all somewhat premature in their development. Before any of you jump to their defenses, believe me that as the author, I feel these fictions lack in dimension and artistic prose._

_That said, I hope this story, in some way, will make up for them._

_This is not to say that I do not intend to finish them (though I may never finish them despite the good intentions). Just believe me that I can do better (such a subjective word!)._

_And of course, love me, hate me – all the same – just review me, my dear readers._

_Much love, your honored scorpiaux_

* * *

The rumors that preceded Aang's arrival in the office were numerous, some bizarre, but all were fundamentally true.

Firstly, he was young. Some twenty-three years old – if even that – freshly shaved and freshly graduated from a prestigious university in the Fire Nation. Secondly, and contrary to this point, he was a direct descendent of the Air Nomads, the very people the Fire Nation Army sought to extinguish some fifty years ago. With the war newly over, and only a few descendants remaining, Aang was a living relic. He had sought refuge in the humanities and found it, the successful outcome of minority scholarships and funds, and so when Gaoxing Lunwen Press offered him an interning position, Aang jumped at the chance. The residing editor, an old Air Nomad by the name of Gyatso, quickly turned Aang into his successor over the course of a single summer.

There were other rumors, certainly – those of the frivolous variety. Aang was single and conventionally attractive. He shaved his head like the ancients did but wore modern garments. The small swirling arrow tattooed above his right brow moved with his expressions – and he was quite expressive, always grinning ear to ear except when consumed with his work. He made bad jokes and loved puns. He went to the gym. Not daily, but enough. He always wore a gray suit to the office with a pressed yellow or orange shirt. The only part of this ensemble that changed daily was the tie. Some humorous, some fashionable, some plain, Aang wore a different tie every weekday.

No one saw him on the weekends. No one asked about his family – though if anyone did, it would have been Gyatso. After Aang's interning summer, no one saw him during the fall season. He seemed to dissipate as quickly as he had appeared. Then, in January, Gyatso announced suddenly he had chosen a successor.

Then there were the snide remarks, the prejudice, the general jealousy.

Why had Gyatso chosen some lowly intern? Just because he hailed from the same race? After a summer of fetching coffees and wrestling with the copy machine, suddenly Aang was qualified to run an entire office. It was unfair to overlook those with more experience simply because they did not match Gyatso's esthetic ideal. This left many embittered in the office, but most notable was the busy-bee, and Gyatso's secret favorite (though, as it turned out, only the second favorite): the Water Tribe graduate, Katara.

At twenty-seven years, Katara was the youngest member of Gaoxing Lunwen prior to Aang's arrival. She had dedicated five years of her post-graduate life to the institution, which sought to bring cultural and historic facts to the public. All the books, articles, and journals published by Gaoxing Lunwen were educational. Editorial pieces were closely monitored and carefully evaluated before going to press. To date, and despite her age, Katara was quickly becoming the most prolific contributor to the press. Her sole focus was reviving the dying arts, educating what she considered an ignorant public, and – selfishly so, but true nonetheless – establishing a name. True to her heritage, Katara specialized in Water Tribe culture, history, society, and philosophy. But her secondary interest – and a quickly budding one, at that – was the world's underdog, the Air Nomads.

A year ago, Gyatso mentioned to the company that he wanted a young successor to take his place. He estimated a two year wait before making his decision, and at the time, Katara believed she was a certain choice. She was, after all, the youngest. And she and Gyatso were friends.

She spent Wednesday mornings in Gyatso's grand mahogany office, chatting over soy lattes about anything from grand historic events to the most recent applying authors. They discussed the weather, or Katara's eccentric brother – a freelance poet and painter newly embracing cubism and nudes. Gyatso often mentioned his late copy editor (Katara assumed they were lovers though Gyatso would never fess up to it) or old friends. There were days Katara mustered up the bravery to ask Gyatso about his generation, or the Fire Nation attacks, but his eyes would glaze over in a silent plea to pause.

Despite her interest and investment, Katara knew when to stop. In her five years with the company, she had yet to finish reading all of Gyatso's research.

In this respect, though she was interested in the new employee, Aang's arrival introduced a tension Katara had never anticipated. Here was this grinning young fool, younger than her and possibly stupider, already in a position she had dreamed of since her undergraduate days. She felt cheated, and the sentiment resonated deep because of her respect for Gyatso, a man she cherished like a grandfather.

He had broke the news to Katara first, and – not knowing how to react – she had politely left his office with a sour taste under her tongue. Gyatso had presented Katara with Aang's file. Outside of the handsome photo, his credentials were otherwise unremarkable.

A fellow office member shook her from her impending self-pity. Suki clasped Katara's shoulder and she jumped. "Why the gloomy face, hun? Long day ahead?"

"Something like that."

"What did Head Fossil want?"

"Don't call him that," Katara warned over the coffee pot.

Suki said with a wink, "Journalism seeks the truth, yes?"

"Sometimes we are misled, it seems."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Katara stirred in a packet of sugar. Without lifting her gaze from her Styrofoam cup she said, "Looks like Gyatso is calling back the intern."

"The bald kid?"

"Shaved." She hesitated, unsure how to continue. "He's only twenty-three."

"A baby," Suki stated. She reached for a cup herself. "He'll get eaten alive here."

"I don't doubt it."

Suki raised a brow and elbowed the younger girl in the ribs. "He was kind of cute."

"Suki, please."

"My apologies, O Sacred Virgin Water Tribe."

"Knock it off." Katara laughed despite herself and took a sip. She considered telling Suki of Aang's new position but decided against it. She would find out in due time.

The rest of the day continued on in a blur, the hours long and blending. The deadline for two projects was fast approaching, but Katara couldn't find the will to work. It was as if her finish line, once close and in view, had extended several hills away. Slumped on her desk, Katara threw her hands in her hair and considered her misfortune. She could forfeit her position to Suki. She could quit, right then and there. Gyatso probably expected as much. Or did he expect her to stay on board despite the fact her promotion had been thwarted, possibly permanently?

"He knows I live for this company," Katara hissed to herself. "That asshole."

She immediately regretted badmouthing her supervisor and, troubled, she looked at her blank screen. Suki was typing away furiously in the glass cubicle across from her, her mouth pouting in focus, a few stray strands of hair swaying with her darting movements. Suki's prose needed work. It was too raw, not artful enough. Gyatso complained of its dryness by complimenting its "stark honesty." Katara was sure she was the only one who knew this was intended as a criticism. That was so like Gyatso, avoiding addressing the problem head-on. That's where Katara was necessary. She was the force behind any changes that happened here.

Her office phone buzzed and Katara pressed the speaker, suddenly irritated. "I'm here. What does he need?"

"He says his intern is coming and he wants you in the office," the secretary reported.

"Right this second?"

"Yes, Miss Katara."

"Grand, grand. I'll be there soon."

Groaning, Katara slipped on her blazer and checked her face in her pocket mirror. She didn't want to look upset or pissed. She would greet this new arrival with the same respect and professionalism she always used with her coworkers. Even if it was unfair. Even if he was some foolish kid. "For Gyatso," she said to herself. She locked her office door behind her and made a path down the hall.


	2. The Successor

_**Author's Note**: Many thanks for the positive feedback. Keep feeding back - even if it's negative. Your thoughts mean the world. XOXO, __scorpiaux_

* * *

Although his generous grinning could have easily been mistaken for foolishness, Aang Yangchen seemed soft-spoken and sensible. Overall, his manner was pleasant. He sat in the office chair with the same alert, open position as Gyatso, and with both men there, sitting calmly across from one another, the room was as quiet as a private study. Katara felt as though she was interrupting a meditation when both of them turned to find her opening the noisy office door.

"Your secretary sent me," she told Gyatso by way of apology. She gave a concise nod in Aang's direction and held out her hand. She met his eyes – the same storm cloud gray as Gyatso's. It was easy to smile for him though just minutes prior she was cursing his arrival. "Mr. Yangchen?" She raised her brows. "My name is Katara Kuruk. I'm the Publications Manager of the press."

"I am honored to meet you, Dr. Kuruk." He stood and took her hand in his. It was large, clammy and stark white at the knuckles, giving away his nervous first day. Katara looked up at him, surprised to find Aang a full head taller than her. She always wore heels to the office because she had read somewhere – or perhaps written it – that taller women were more imposing, that a tall female's striking stature demanded respect from like-heighted male coworkers, whereas a shorter woman would more closely resemble a "little girl." Even with her three-inch T. Lee heels, Katara had to tilt her head to find Aang's face.

"Not a 'doctor' yet," she responded lightly as he took his seat. "And 'Katara' will do. We aren't very formal in this office."

"Katara." The hesitance in his voice made her name sound delicate. Valuable.

"Yes, Mr. Yangchen?" She took the seat next to Gyatso, across the grand desk from Aang. Gyatso offered her a small espresso in a glass, which she sipped from with some urgency. She crossed her legs beneath her seat and removed a file from the shelves behind her.

Aang met her eyes once she turned around and said, the grin not leaving his face, "Then you must call me Aang. Not a 'mister' yet."

"Of course," she acquiesced. "Aang."

"Shall we get started?" Gyatso suggested, tapping the wire rim of his glasses. "We will want to have the paperwork finished by lunch."

"We have plenty of time," assured Katara. "It's still only 9:10."

"It might be complicated because Aang is not a citizen of the Earth Kingdom," Gyatso reported. "For his employment here, he will need two separate forms submitted to the state before the end of this month." Gyatso rubbed his temples with his forefingers and turned his face to the ceiling.

Katara watched the delicate, freckled skin of his scalp swirl with his movements. He was in his token caramel suite and blue tie, his white beard trimmed close to his face, his head cleanly shaved. Since her employment here, Katara had always admired Gyatso's neat character. Suddenly she found herself glancing over at the other Air Nomad descendant to compare, and wondered briefly if all the men of their nation were neat and well-composed. Her thoughts also drifted to her barbaric, hairy older brother – his paint-stained dress-shirts, his pants worn at the knees, his rusty razorblades and various toothbrushes gracing the bathroom sink. She smiled to herself, overcome with love and wonder.

Today, Aang's suite was gray, just as it was during his interning summer. Like Gyatso, his hair was cleanly shaved. He had bluish bags under his eyes that, despite his cheery demeanor, gave him a look of ache and distress. When he found Katara looking at him, returning his gaze, he quickly diverted his eyes to the maroon carpet and cleared his throat.

Forty-five years ago, when Gyatso had first moved into the office, he had anticipated finding a successor before his fiftieth birthday. Now Gyatso was seventy-three. This day – with this paperwork, these complications, these official transfers – was long overdue, and he was very tired. But he knew, at least, that he had found the right leader.

"I will find the necessary citizenship forms and submit them for Mr. Yangch – um, Aang," Katara proposed quickly. "I'll see to it that they are processed as soon as possible."

"He will have to fill them out himself."

"If he gives me his passport, I can do it."

"It's better that he completes them, my dear," Gyatso said gently. He put his withered hand on Katara's shoulder and smiled at her. "Not that I doubt you'll do a fine job, but they may want to see him in person. Sometimes there is an interview component. I don't anticipate any problems, however. For today, I only want you to handle the employment paperwork for his ownership of the press. He won't be official until February if we are lucky."

"Yes, Gyatso."

"We will also talk about my last project for the press," Gyatso told them both. If he was saddened by this news, it was not apparent in his tone or behavior. He quietly reached underneath his desk and removed a thick file, which he handed to Aang without presenting to Katara. She feigned an interest in the employment paperwork before her and attempted to remain aloof, but felt the skin beneath her eyebrow twitch.

"Dante's Inferno," Aang read aloud.

"Yes, that's the title," Gyatso joked.

"I didn't know you were doing research about that invasion," Aang admitted. "Is this a recent work? Are you allowed to publish this?" Katara watched as Aang nervously thumbed the edges of the file. It seemed as though he didn't want to open it. Katara knew about this project only because Gyatso had cited a future reference in one of his earlier articles: '_The following subject matter to be discussed in an upcoming publication, _Dante's Inferno_, publication date TBA.' _She felt thwarted and a little angry that Gyatso did not seem to want to share it with her.

"I've worked on it for most of my life," Gyatso answered boldly. His eyes glistened then, and he pulled on his tie, running his fists slowly over the silk material. "It discusses every aspect of the Dante's Inferno Invasion as told by the Fire Nation. Then I compare that to actual facts – I was there for that attack, you know. It's a miracle I made it out alive. But the research for this project was daunting. An incredible feat. I'm not sure which accomplishment is more impressive – my survival, or the retelling of it."

Katara and Aang laughed politely and Gyatso smiled.

"Both are equally remarkable," Katara said. She covered Gyatso's hand with hers. "You endured atrocities for both!"

In a heavy tone Aang commented, eyes on Gyatso, "Jokes aside, this is truly monumental." He hesitated then, looking first at Katara and then searching the clean glass of the adjacent window, the bright, clean city beneath. After clearing his throat, he mustered up the courage to look at the file. "As I told you last summer, I lost a great number of relatives to that invasion."

"We lost many good people those nine days," agreed Gyatso sadly. "I can see by the confused look on your face that you don't read the language of the ancients."

"I do," said Aang to Katara's surprise. "But these are just numbers."

"Ah, yes. Marvelous. Well, don't read too much there. Those are only logistics. Notes. Publication projections. The complete text is at my home. I don't bring it anywhere or take it out. If I could print it there, I would."

"You are wise. It's a valuable piece of literature," said Aang. "Homage to everything lost."

"I'm so sorry for your own losses," Katara said to him. She felt as though she did not have a place in this conversation, or this office, or the entire press. What Aang and Gyatso were discussing was so intimate, so sacred. Just being here to witness it made Katara feel exposed and vulnerable herself. "We didn't hear much about you the summer you were here. What a terrible thing to endure." Her voice was low, and the well-wish sounded like a whisper. But Aang heard her and nodded in her direction, his smile a little darker now.

In the pause that followed, Gyatso gulped down his remaining espresso and reclined back into the leather cushion of his chair. "Let's get down to business, shall we?" He turned the back of his chair to Katara, a method he always employed while giving her orders so that the effect was less direct for him, and began speaking. Katara hurriedly transcribed after him and Aang watched with amazement. Typing would have been faster and easier for her, but he knew Gyatso's policy towards technology. He wanted things done the old-fashioned way, the best way. Aang wondered if he would change this once he was in control.

"I, Gyatso Tenzin, in sound mind and spirit, on this day in January, Year of the Ox, hereby grant all ownership, possession, rights, and titles of Gaoxing Lunwen Press to my successor, Aang Yangchen of the Western Temple…"

As Katara furiously scribbled after him, Aang took note of her face and posture. Her eyes were ice – blue and cold – as they focused on her task. Her fingers were slender, long, and Aang noticed her red polish had chipped off the tip of her thumbnail. He imagined a nail-biting habit which, though contrived, endeared her to him. Gyatso's presence in the room had anesthetized the effect of such a remarkably attractive coworker, but as Aang watched her, he felt a budding fascination seize his heart full force.


	3. Divorced

_it was hot today, and i am writing this in a bra on the floor of my room. i apologize for typos &amp; general sexual aggression. or perhaps, lack thereof. and of course - always, and forever - i am thankful for your continued feedback. keep feeding back, even if it's negative - it's how we grow as writers. and my updates seem to come faster when i know you are waiting for them - _

_xoxo, scorpiaux._

* * *

The girl was supposed to live with Jet. It wasn't Katara's decision, but it was written in their contract during the divorce – a paper she'd signed, initialed, and dated alongside her now ex-husband. The office their lawyers had chosen was cramped and frivolously windowed, the heat of August boiling them alive through flimsy cotton blinds. Jet's oddly composed posture across the table looked dark against the backdrop of the glowing, simmering city behind him.

He had remained aloof, adjusting his tie now and then, and he signed with a single "J" below Katara's embellished, italicized "_Katara H. Kuruk._" This gesture provoked her in a way she did not expect, and she crumpled in tears during the drive home, remembering how often they'd have sex in this car, or drive to the theater during evenings off work, or the day she bought the beat-up clunker during her junior year in college. He had hugged her and rattled the keys, proclaiming, "We can go anywhere we want now! The world is our oyster!" He followed this vast, noble claim by taking her in the back seat. Sweaty and starving, they drove to the Cabbage Stand afterwards, feasted on to-go wraps and sipped orange colas before driving back to the dorms. They stargazed in the parking lot until the security guard told them to stop loitering.

Remembering their university days led Katara, naturally, to remember her dormitory, and Jet's experienced mouth on her body, and their youth uncoiling together as they grew up, got married, and fell apart. It was just like this car. On the verge of collapse until one day, it happens, and no jump-starts or oil changes or lube can fix it.

When she returned to her apartment that day, she noticed Jet had left her a letter (or, more specifically, a napkin), and despite herself, her heart felt a little faint. If five years with the ultimate human failure had taught her anything, it was not to expect any humanity from him. And true to his nature, the note was not a good one. He was kicking her out. _I know we agreed that you'd stay at my place though the apartment will go to me_, he'd scribbled in purple Sharpie. _But frankly I need to rent the place out since I'm leaving my job at the restaurant and you can always just go live with your brother. Or the Fire Nation prick you were fucking behind my back. Whatever works for you_.

Then, at the end, there it was again. The corner of the napkin. That nonchalant, singular "J."

It was an ultimate low for him, but in retrospect, was she surprised? There was no "Fire Nation prick" to go back to – the affair was all in Jet's vivid imagination, a justification for his own multitude of affairs, his ocean of affairs, his never-ending loves with everyone who wasn't Katara. And Sokka? Would he want to shelter her after a healthy dose of "I told you so"? She was willing to take that chance. Five years with Jet had drained her, and Sokka was her only family not residing in a nursing home.

But the girl. The girl had stayed with Jet.

She wasn't Katara's daughter, but she easily could have been. This morning before heading off to work and finalizing Aang Yanchen's citizenship papers, Katara found a crumpled crayon drawing in her purse, and the sour feelings of the divorce flooded her morning, made her coffee bitter and her eggs tasteless. It had been six months since she'd last seen Lin. Little Lin-Lin. The only thing Jet had ever done right.

She turned the drawing around in her hands. She placed it next to her breakfast and sipped her coffee, running her fingers over the waxy, colorful array of hearts and stars. In the past, she had turned to work to distract her from this ache. The ache of missing a child… it was worse than the ache a man left because children were never in the wrong. And Katara knew Lin didn't understand why she and her father were no longer together. They had split a little over a year ago, and Lin, now six years old, still couldn't wrap her kindergarten brains around it.

When Jet explained that he and Katara were no longer in love, little Lin innocently attempted to play cupid. She drew a valentine in crayon and gave it to Katara, signing it with Jet's signature "J" at the corner. The gesture had stunned Katara to silence, as it did now. This girl wasn't hers. Jet won the custody battle without having to fight it, and Katara's weekend visits were only possible because of Lin's mother's indifference towards the matter. She was an Earth Kingdom native, and reportedly very rich, but she saw Lin less than Katara did. Her fling with Jet was a one-night stand and the abortionist had failed to deflate her looming belly. Lin was nothing short of a miracle.

Of course, since Jet confessed to Katara that he had a child early in their relationship, Lin was a miracle in that sense too – she was one of Jet's flaws that Katara had seamlessly, willingly accepted. She was every mistake Jet had made that Katara had already forgiven.

Lin was unconditional love. And she permitted Katara and Jet to have a "married with child" relationship that they would not have had otherwise. Katara got to play mom without having to go through childbirth. If nothing else, she was thankful for that, though five years of make-believe had instilled the role in her bones. She was suffering from mommy withdrawal, and she knew it.

Lin's routine had soaked up all of Katara's maternal instincts. Even on nights when Jet didn't come home, out jumping from bed to bed like a flea, Katara and Lin never let it faze them. They stayed up, painted their toenails, and watched Wan Shi Tong Sing-a-Long until they fell asleep. Truly Lin had been her confidant through it all without even knowing. Last Katara heard, Lin's mother was picking up the slack, and Lin now lived with her in a large estate in the north. Jet left a message on her answering machine about two weeks ago. "Hey. Just wanted to let you know that the kiddo's a-okay. She lives with her mom now in the provinces. They're close. Hope you're okay. Uh. I'm leaving for the North Pole in a week so you probably won't hear from me in a while. Got a new gig up there... Well, see you around."

Gig? Gig, she wondered. What career path was he doing justice to now? She never knew where his money came from, even when they were together. His professional life was an enigma. The best answer she ever got out of Jet when she asked, as directly as possible, what he did for a living, and how he was paying their combined expenses, was a broad smile and a suggestion "not to worry about it." Legitimate indeed.

Sokka was already out and about, and Katara was running late. She folded the drawing back up and zipped her purse. She buttoned her blazer. For the rest of the day, she went through the motions of being awake without feeling like she left the bed. Even Suki's double espresso shot didn't get her in the mood for work. It was well enough, too, because Aang Yangchen did not show up when he was supposed to.

"Train wreck," Suki accused mercilessly. "I knew he wouldn't last. It's day one and he's not here?"

"He might be getting his paperwork from the bureau," Katara defended lamely. "He isn't a citizen yet and it's causing us issues."

"You're on his side now?"

"Whatever is left of it. I was looking over his file last night and he isn't qualified at all. I almost feel bad for him." Katara shook her head in disbelief. "But it's all his now anyway, isn't it? So we have to let it go."

"I know you're just as bitter as I am," Suki said. "This should have been yours."

"I _am_ bitter. But he's helping Gyatso with a project on the Dante's Inferno Invasion. I respect that immensely. I'm just going to let it go."

There was a pause, and Katara gazed at the ceiling of her office, clearly distracted. Suki, as perceptive as ever, hummed, "Your mind's on something else," and crossed her arms.

Katara feigned a laugh. "It's true," she admitted. "But nothing we can fix." She let her eyes float to her purse hanging on the coat rack. Suki had taken it upon herself to cover the coat rack with stickers when Katara purchased it a few months back. It looked ridiculous, but it definitely lifted the vibe of the room.

"I'll come back for you," the older girl warned. "We're going to talk about this. And we're going out tonight. Bring your sexy brother."

"I can't promise he'll be there! And don't be so thirsty. He's bad for you." Their on and off affairs annoyed Katara, who had to listen to both sides after a fight, then take sides, then reconcile them both.

Suki winked and laughed, dancing back to her own desk, already anticipating an evening full of rumba and wine. Once she left, Katara hung up Lin's crayon masterpiece next to the only portrait she had in the office, an old shot of her and her brother, smiling with missing teeth into the camera as young children, holding up two fish on separate hooks. It was the last day they spent with their father before he was imprisoned. Lin's drawing lessened the effect of this day – those two children smiling in that frame, frozen in time, could have easily created the crayon drawing themselves. But there was one thing Katara did change. With her scissors, she snipped the "J" from the corner, wadded her gum in it, and threw it in the trash.

She then dedicated the remainder of her day to Aang's paperwork, and delighted in seeing his sweaty frame hustle up the stairs, already an hour late, his briefcase partially open and his tie off to the side. She giggled without meaning to, and he caught her eye as he made his way to Gyatso's office, smiled back, and winked. She didn't know why, but it finally felt like morning.


	4. Invitation

By the end of the day, Aang Yangchen's citizenship paperwork was complete. Even the entitlement deeds were drafted, copied, and sealed. Two manila envelopes without their postages paid lay flat at the corner of Katara's cleared desk. As she sipped water from the cooler in her office, she looked askance at them, debating on whether she should call the young successor in to finish the job now, or wait until the end of the day. She glanced at her silver wristwatch with the leather strap, one of the few remnants of her mother. It was only 3:23 p.m.

Gyatso had stopped by today to confirm that Aang's interviews with the Earth Kingdom National Bureau were fulfilled this morning. The visit was a great feat on Gyatso's part – Katara knew – because if it was something less urgent, he would have simply called. His teetering frame in her doorway earlier this afternoon, with half of his weight reliant on a carved oak cane and the other half on a prosthetic hip, meant that he wanted her to press along. And she had obliged, as evidenced by the two perfectly packed envelopes. All that was left was Aang's signature and thumbprints on the seal, and a verification of his address in the presence of a witness.

Still, Katara did not understand why she was hesitant to call him in, much less speak to him tête-à-tête. She had remained in her office throughout her lunch hour, stealing glances at Lin's crayon drawing on the wall, or at Suki across the hallway packing her mouth with sushi from a carry-out tray. She allowed herself to take her time on the pages of citizenship paperwork that sprawled before her like table protectant for a crafts project. She had noticed Aang's tall, suited frame outside of the glass walls as he walked alongside Gyatso, his arm about the older man's frail shoulders, each step in tune with the other. They could have easily passed for father and son. From her desk, Katara saw Aang turn to her, but she did not peel her eyes away from her work. After lunch, Gyatso stopped by alone, and she had smiled at him, nodded at his news, all without speaking.

"Suki's right," Katara sighed to herself now, in the company of no one but her echoing resentment. Her voice itched in her throat and she drank another cup of cool water. She crushed the paper vessel against her hip and tossed it in the wastebasket. "I am bitter as _fuck_ about this. Some toddler waddles in here and owns the place… And I'm doing his dirty work." She took her seat and rubbed her eyes irritably. She dialed Gyatso's extension. The secretary answered with her distinctive high squeal.

"Meng, please send Aang Yangchen to my office. I need his signature."

"He isn't here," the girl fussed. "I think he's gone for the day."

"Is Gyatso in?"

"Nuh-uh, he isn't here either."

"Is it possible that they're together?"

"Um, I didn't see them leaving anywhere…"

"Are they in the press room? The lounge?"

"I really dunno."

Katara cringed with the urge to berate the girl, who was noisily popping and snapping gum.

The popping paused and then the secretary huffed smartly, "Oh wait, never mind! They're both in his office. My bad. I don't have my glasses on." She giggled then, suddenly animated, and Katara rolled her eyes. "Oh my gosh, he's waving at me! Sweet guy. I'm gonna wave back. Hold on."

"Send him in once you're done waving. Preferably today. I need to finish this."

"Sure, sure. No worries Katara."

"It's Miss Kuruk." Katara felt she needed to assert labels for Meng, who had no concept of professionalism nor respect. Though, in truth, the office was not formal, the interns were still expected to express esteem for their betters. It was an unspoken rule that the interns used titles and third-person to refer to the publishers and authors – this also included editors, like Suki Kyoshi.

Meng's innate refusal of this code suddenly reminded Katara of Aang's polite demeanor during their first meeting, and she smiled to herself, glad that – at the very least – Gyatso's successor was in good taste. On Wednesdays, a different secretary worked for Gyatso because Meng needed to attend classes. She was an older woman, far more respectful and qualified, but part-time. This additional contrast added to Katara's distaste for Meng.

"Very soon, I'm going to be Doctor Kuruk," she continued. "We have titles in this office, Meng. Even if you prefer, we can call you Miss. But it is imperative that you respect your supers. Do you understand?"

She heard a slight, lisped laugh. Meng sneered, "Gyatso lets me call him Gyatso. I don't see what the big deal is. But whatever. Aang's on his way." She popped once more before hurriedly closing the line.

Only after Meng hung up did Katara correct aloud, to no one, "It's Mister Yangchen." She pressed the handset to the receiver.

Meng was an undergraduate intern. Unlike the other interns – and there were many – Meng was utterly useless. Even a trip to the local café for a coffee run would turn into a tumultuous two hour detour, the fruits of which were miserable, cold lattes and an explanation that Meng "forgot the way back here" or "ran into someone" she knew.

Once, genuinely concerned, they had went as far as to call local authorities, considering the possibility that Meng had been kidnapped – a hypothesis strongly countered by Suki, who disputed with bewilderment and laughter, "Who would kidnap Meng? A blind bandit? Or a traveling circus?"

Aside from her aesthetic failures, Meng was also terrible at taking calls, transferring calls, even recording messages. Her desk, which sat right outside the main office, was an eternal clutter. She was always on the phone with her personal acquaintances. Katara guessed that if Gyatso allowed for office computers, Meng would have taken full advantage. Her incompetence was so notorious, so well-known, that when she properly executed tasks, everyone was impressed, on the verge of applause. She left the messy desk for the other secretary to clean up on Wednesdays (the gem – she did it without complaints). Katara guessed that Meng was lazy, not incompetent – rude, not forgetful. Katara once mentioned to Gyatso that Meng should be replaced, but Gyatso answered calmly that a girl like Meng would be lost without a job or purpose.

"Imagine," he had wagered, "if Meng was let loose on the streets." He had added, "She only has a year left here, regardless. Attempt patience, dear Katara." Now, with six months of Meng still left on the job, Katara was close to cracking.

Why Gyatso continually elected to hire lost cases was beyond Katara's scope of understanding, but it was his office, and even though she had the authority to fire Meng as the Publications Manager, out of respect for Gyatso, she never exercised this right.

But today was different. It was one of those few miraculous days. Meng did something right, and Aang knocked on Katara's glass door a few moments after the call.

All of the walls and doors in Gaoxing Lunwen Press were glass – save for the restrooms and lounge, which were cream marble and oak. Though he could see Katara behind her desk, Aang elected to keep his eyes fixed on the doormat until she buzzed him in. Only once the door was open did he look up to catch her eyes; this endeared him to her in a way she did not expect. His respect – especially in contrast to Meng – gave him new credit, and though she had spent the morning writhing and cursing in tart revulsion for him and all the work he brought with him, Katara's gaze softened. She was oddly at ease in his presence – his looming, fatherly presence, his calm presence, his polite presence. She realized that it would not be so terrible to work for him, and this insight gave her peace. Who knew, she thought – he might even be better than Gyatso.

"You called for me, Miss Kuruk?"

"Yes," she answered brightly, leaning over the desk to shake his hand hello. "Have a seat. Would you like something?"

"Water, if you are having it." He stuffed his index finger into his stiff white collar and pulled. "It's unseasonably hot today."

"'Better sun than snow, better blackbird than crow.'"

"You quote poetry too, Miss Kuruk? That's talent. I remember that couplet as well."

Pleased at the complement, she turned to fill a paper cup for him. She chided, "You can remember a couplet from the Great Poet Zhang Zu, but you can't remember to call me Katara like I told you?"

"Yes, I remember. But I heard Meng on the phone…" Aang hesitated and played with his tie, a solid blue silk today. His voice grew unexpectedly low. When she looked back to him, she found that his smile had flattened into a stern streak, parallel with his lowered brown brows. "I don't want special treatment because I'm going to be in charge," he warned gently, taking the cup from her. His face remained still as he spoke. "If you prefer Miss Kuruk, I am more than willing to oblige."

She regarded him with her distinctive thoughtful pout, unsure what to say to counter this. In conflict, thought, or panic, Katara's mouth always assumed the position of a perfect, perky 'o.' Aang tipped the cup back like a shot glass after motioning a cheers to her. He turned his eyes to the ceiling as he drank. If he looked at her mouth too long, his body would betray him. He could not afford the risk while wearing thin khaki slacks.

"You are not getting special treatment," she assured, sipping from a cup herself. "Meng and I… That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Interns must adhere to a certain code in this office. And she has never adhered to anything."

"Why is that?"

"Excuse me?"

"All my respect. But why are interns treated differently?"

"You were an intern here, weren't you?" Katara pulled her glasses from their case in the desk drawer and removed a form from the topmost manila envelope. Her frames were bright purple; her pout prevailed as she brushed hair away from her high cheeks, and Aang was wholly delighted with her. He watched her face – specifically, her mouth – transfixed, as she continued.

"We have several interns; they cycle out so quick that we barely get to learn their names. Look at you. I didn't know your name when you were working as copy editor and assistant for Gyatso. I just knew you were a paid intern for the summer."

"Unpaid," Aang corrected, rubbing his knees. "But all the same."

"Right. Well, you spoke with respect to supers in the past, just as you do now. I've dedicated years to this press – not to be insulted by undergraduates who are more skilled at popping gum on the job than transferring a call. She's lucky that she got a salary for her year here as a secretary. That's one of the least stressing jobs. And others would have done it for free." She huffed, agitated with her own analysis of Meng, "We are the most well-respected press in the Earth Kingdom – if not the world. We determine the recorded history, the cultural nuances that are remembered between generations. We are responsible. Is it too much to ask for some respect and competence from a girl who can't calculate latte change in her head?"

He was silent as Katara searched the paper. She highlighted lines where Aang needed to sign, her hand flying over the text as deftly as a bird. She removed an inkpad from her drawer for him so that he could stamp his thumbs on the corner of the form.

She heard Aang chuckle, "You don't like Meng very much, do you?"

"It isn't about preference," she replied hotly, but his frankness made her flush a vivid red. "And no," she continued, grinning a little, "to be honest, I don't."

"She's not a bad kid."

"Perhaps not, but she is a poor worker. She makes our job four times as difficult."

He asked, "Why don't you fire her?" as he reached for his breast pocket. He uncapped a gold pen and began signing. The gold was gaudy, Katara thought, and somehow out of place on him; he seemed unconcerned with wealth, his dress simple, his manner humble despite his new position as successor. She wondered if the pen was a gift. Possibly from a girlfriend.

"You can fire her as Publications Manager," he went on. "She is under your branch of employment directly."

"Ah. You've been reading about our roles, haven't you?" Katara clapped her hands together. "Impressive."

"It's my job." He beamed at her; it was warm. Genuine. "I'm tempted to fire her for you since your regard for Master Gyatso has been so obstructive to your comfort here."

His smile spread on as he signed, and Katara quickly looked away, though the urge to look at him was suddenly overwhelming. Aang's smile was straight and white; only his maxillary teeth showed because of his plump lower lip, which was an inviting pink. When she turned to him again she focused on this thick lip with fascination. It was without question his most striking feature. Even the small black tattoo over his right eyebrow seemed less prominent.

"Is there something on my face?" His wrists were up, his thumbs newly blackened with ink. They stuck out of his fists over the ledge of the table and Katara thought with a smile, Two thumbs up indeed. Aang self-consciously wiped the backs of his clean fingers against his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No – no…" She took the form from him and shoved it in the envelope after waving it distractedly to dry. "I'm sorry. I was jus thinking of what else you need to do so we can finish this. I remember now. We need address verification. That's right here. I'll be the witness, so I sign too."

She signed without looking up again, thoroughly embarrassed, as if he knew she was silently, newly obsessed with his lip and was on the threshold of considering its taste and texture.

There were so few young men in the office.

Outside of Gyatso and Sokka – and the occasional, almost lamentable run-ins with Jet, usually in the grocery store's wine aisle – Katara was restricted to a female sphere. She saw Suki everyday; at work on weekdays, at home or out on weekends. She visited her grandmother in the nursing home. She volunteered at a battered women's shelter on Yew Street throughout the year, often offering her holidays. Now, as a PhD student, she taught courses on feminist literary discourse to a class that was more than ninety percent female.

The boys she did see were interns, some as young as seventeen; the janitor, Bushi; and the nameless acned barista who never charged her full price.

Then there was Haru (Suki bestowed the epithet: "Sex-in-lieu-of-Haru"). He was an Earth Kingdom native whose father owned a pharmacy on the west side of town. Outside of his Adonis physique, Haru was unremarkable. He had never read any of Katara's articles though they were published in the very magazines his father sold. His vocabulary was astonishingly limited. He met Katara at the café beneath the press and offered her lunch. Newly divorced, Katara had accepted – if not out of loneliness, then certainly out of residual rejection.

Haru adored her for her physical beauty and her metaphysical brains he could not understand; Katara knew, because their first night together, he had taken every measure to please her, his head submerged beneath the sheets for ceaseless hours – longer than the years of Jet's tongue time combined. Afterwards he would cradle her body within his and kiss her neck and hair. In the morning, he lapped at her breasts eagerly to wake her, his bare erection poking from his boxers, pressing against her naked hip. He was reserved with his hands, finding his mouth more versatile – it was with his mouth he undressed her, slipped her panties down her full thighs and pulled her bra over her head. An excellent lover. Unmatched. In her time with him, her orgasms were reliably countless and deep. Often she wept until the pillow was damp with her tears; she would scream until she lost her voice. And she was always in a good mood – despite the fact that Sokka was newly unemployed at the time, and there was pressure on her to provide for them both now that she lived with the starving artist.

Predictably – at least, for Katara – they had broken up. It happened over some silly thing, the kind of small fight that is indicative of much more, the hairline crack in the dam that destroys the construction of engineers. He grew a mustache, refused to shave it off, and after some debate ("You wouldn't like it if I didn't shave, would you?" "That is not the same! You are a girl!" "Are you seriously basing your argument on patriarchal gender roles?" "What is patriarchal rolls? What are you talking about?") she closed her legs to him forever. They went their separate ways some six weeks after they met. Though he still emailed her from time to time, his rampant typos and mustachioed profile picture deterred her from ever writing back. Still, it was good to know that he "mussed" her. For all intents and purposes, she mussed him too.

Now, in the presence of Aang Yangchen's wonderfully pink lower lip, the memory of Haru's renowned orgasms were tinged with regret and the silent astonishment that comes with hindsight. She didn't ever think she'd miss trembling beneath a man until this moment. Katara blamed the lack of reputable, eligible men in her life for her behavior and thoughts, her memories and her insistent desire. Even when she was in bed alone, she did not think of Haru. She had not thought about him for months. But Aang had seized this locked, repressed corner, brought it into the light of day with a single lip.

Sokka had it easier than she did, she realized now. He fluttered between relationships and beautiful woman like a glittering hummingbird. Every avenue and club opened its blossoms to welcome him. Even Suki, who was – truth be told – far more attractive, successful and much classier than Sokka – had hopelessly fallen for him, given him a limitless pass to her heart and body that he expended at will. Sokka's sexuality could exist without guilt, reform, or marriage. He did not even need a partner. But hers could not exist this way; at least, it hadn't. Her sexuality was defined by the man she was with. For years, it was defined by the boy she had given her virginity to, and then, after Jet, it was defined by Haru's expertise. Only in this moment did she realize she had an appetite individual of either of them. She did not miss nor desire her previous lovers when she looked at Aang Yangchen in front of her. She only knew she wanted to execute a will she previously snuffed out. A will that had lain dormant for much too long. She wanted to taste his pink lip. She wanted to touch his lip and then have him leave the room. She did not even want him to touch her. She did not want him to kiss her breasts or trail his mouth along her navel, though she could easily imagine these things too.

It was the first time she had ever felt true lust for an object that she doubted she could have. It was the first time she wanted to impose an action on a man simply for the sake of that action, for the sake of her previously ambiguous, ill-defined sexuality that she had never claimed.

All of this fuss, thought Katara, over a stupid lip.

"I live on Ta Den," Aang answered, yanking her from her trance. He dipped his thumbs in what was left in his paper cup and dried them on his handkerchief. "Right next to the park. It's 701 Ta Den Drive, Younis District, Earth Kingdom, 557-32."

She did not know it, but he was surveying her mouth with matched intensity. Each was lost in thoughts of the other, though not to the point of delusion or ogling. They attempted to remain withdrawn, friendly. He had to keep summoning Meng's face to disturb the impending erection behind his zipper. Yet now and then the image of Katara kneeling in front of him – her pout circumscribed about his stiff shaft, her chocolate curls clenched in his fists – would shake him to alertness and he would clear his throat. Did she realized how beautiful she was, he wondered. Did she know? Was she at all aware? He felt a plunge in his chest, a lurch – he was not sure if this was a budding lovesickness or anxiety.

Katara scribbled his address and avoided peering up. She signed her name after "witness" and allowed him to sign as well. "I used to live in Younis years ago," she said. "It's a good place."

"Anything is better than the dorms in the Fire Nation," he laughed.

"701 Ta Den Drive?" Katara confirmed.

"That's it."

"Wonderful." She nudged this form back into the envelope, relieved to be through.

"This paperwork doesn't make sense," Aang observed with a sigh. He was distraught. He shook his head in mock agony.

"They have to do this. The war only ended 50 years ago," she reminded. "In many ways, it's ongoing. They have to confirm you are not a Fire Nation spy. Or a soldier. Or any great number of things."

"But this part, specifically. The address."

"Why is that absurd to you?"

"You are the witness, but you haven't been to my apartment. How can you confirm that I live there?" He smiled at her raised brows, her perplexed, wonderful pout. "I'm inviting you," he clarified, "for the sake of the authenticity of the paperwork. Only."

She felt herself warm under his gaze, the heat of the setting sun spreading between her shoulder blades from the window behind her. "That's not necessary. I believe you. Master Gyatso himself has vouched for you."

"It's like you said," he challenged. His eyes, reflective as steel, danced with the thrill of his offer though his tone was cool. He was looking at her mouth clearly now. "I really could be a spy. I really could be a soldier. I could be any great number of things."


	5. The Demigod

_short, but proof that i am alive. thanks to those who sent encouraging words my way. it meant the world to me, truly it did. i am feeling better. excuse any typos... you have my love. make my day by reviewing? xoxo._

* * *

She did not permit herself time to reconsider. Confiding in Suki, too, would have to wait – not to undermine the girl's wisdom (Suki, despite her dirty jokes and sideways smirks, was easily the wisest woman Katara knew), but she already had an idea of what the older girl would advise: "It's been so long for you, O Sacred Virgin Water Tribe. Too long. What's a little office fun? Besides," she'd add, "he's so damn _cute_."

Cute. Conveniently, Katara Kuruk could forget that Aang Yangchen was her soon-to-be supervisor. It was almost five, and she anticipated his return to her office with a childlike unease. She wondered when he would come, or if he expected her to wait for him. It was distracting enough to make her nervous. Suddenly she did not feel as though she was at work. Here, and at the university where she taught part-time, she had her bearings. Her reputation in the professional world – though still fledgling – was illustrious, fashioned in part by her publications, in part by her lecture series. She knew becoming derailed was a danger, and yet she could not shake her attraction to it. What did she want? She was afraid to ask it of herself, and instead focused on the broad array of possible answers while she awaited the company's mass exodus at five.

Only Gyatso – his teetering frame passing in front of her office with the difficulty of a rusted puppet – could snap her out of it. Was it bad luck or fate for him to turn, see her still there, and stop by? Their gazes met and he smiled before turning and opening her glass door. Out of habit, she stood to greet him and immediately ran to her coffee machine.

"Good evening, my dear," Gyatso greeted as he sat. He rested his cane against the desk and settled into the leather slowly. "Add some cream for me, will you?"

Her back to him, she mused from the machine, "You always take it black."

"Except at five." Gyatso closed his eyes and touched his temples, as if coaxing a phrase from distant memory. He quoted, "_Storms build the tundra, as your soul, a splendid tragic art. In progress still. Permit me a kiss, thrill me as we part: I into the tempest, you without return into my heart. _"

"Koh Kei Raak, the Water Tribe poet." She took the seat next to him instead of returning behind her desk. "_I see a version of your face in each nation; I curse my stubborn memory, I curse each incarnation._" She had poured herself a small cup and sipped thoughtfully. Kei Raak was one of her personal favorites. Meanwhile, the coffee was lukewarm; she winced and looked at Gyatso, who grinned and drank regardless, always able to whether whatever small dilemmas shook him. That affable Air Nomad gene.

"The Water Tribe poets are somewhat of an oddity. We have Pre-Great War era, some hundred years ago. Post-Great War era. But the ones that are coming up now, like Kei Raak. I know you've explored this already in your work, as have others. But I wonder. The question has never been explored. They are the only romantics left, it seems. They choose, invariably, to write about unrequited love. Men and women."

"A bunch of forlorn losers, Gyatso," Katara answered with a small smile. "Each nation has its vices. The New Fire Nation poets have the sex, the Earth Kingdom goers have family. Some of the most heartbreaking poetry I've read came from Gong Chu, the Earth Kingdom delegate who wrote poetic letters to the son his wife miscarried. His words are scarring… I was never the same after reading him."

"Love isn't love that doesn't alter us beyond return, it seems."

"True, true."

"You know, I met Gong Chu personally before he passed away." Gyatso stood to refill his cup himself. He did not take his cane, and Katara watched from the corner of her eye with worry. His failing health was imminent, possibly always there, but it was made more drastic since the arrival of Aang. When they stood side by side, Aang's youth and vitality greatly underscored Gyatso's numerous eras. And to pigeonhole them both as "boss" made the contrast even sharper. She was careful, now, to notice features she had overlooked before. The liver spots on Gyatso's nose that resembled freckles. The craning of his neck that began with the small bulge on his back. The hairs on his wrist – which just poked from the sleeve of his suit jacket – were white and wiry, interspersed with the occasional gray variant. Even his voice seemed more distant, as if his lungs were slouching deeper and deeper within his thin frame.

"What was he like?" Katara ventured aloud, wondering also what Gyatso was once like.

"Like any other man. Passionate. A little uncertain. He had had another son at that point. A boy named Chu Yen. Funny though," Gyatso concluded, taking his chair. "He never wrote any poetry for that one."

"That's how it always works," sighed Katara. "My parents would sooner swear by my brother than acknowledge anything I've done. But it's water under the bridge now. Spirits know where they are. _I curse every incarnation_." She held up her cup in offering and they tapped in cheers. "To the second child!"

"To the forgotten child," winked Gyatso. "So what do you say? Why this focus on unrequited love?"

"That was… what, two papers ago? There are a number of reasons. Inferiority complex. Tribal ceremonies and traditions that value the unrequited. Childhood nursery rhymes, even. Societal constructs regarding the passage from adolescence to adulthood. So many reasons. The real question is why the Air Nomads do not have a single running theme."

"They did. When the Dante's Inferno Project is complete, it will answer that, among many other questions."

Katara fell silent remembering Gyatso's adamant preference for Aang. She had missed these meetings – talks, intellectual stimulation, hypotheticals, and sometimes – if she was lucky – love advice. The previous weeks had been burdened with the new successor, and truthfully, Katara was hurt. It was Katara who had avoided Gyatso, missed their Wednesday morning meeting on purpose, taking the train at nine and getting to work while Gyatso was meeting with authors. The jealousy was not unwarranted, he knew. Loss of the position was permissible, forgivable – but favoring another coworker (a far less qualified employee, at that) was a dagger in the back.

He removed his glasses. The sun from the window, passing in slits through the blinds, fell in a perfect slab across his lap. He blinked out the glare that reflected from his lenses. "I am wondering, Katara, what you think of the Avatar."

"The Avatar?"

"Do you believe the Avatar exists?" he pressed.

The phrase was a relic, passed around frequently in ancient texts. Some said the war started on behalf of the Avatar, but no one could cite that fact on certainty. Almost all documents from the time were destroyed by the Fire Nation. Whatever was left was heavily guarded or modified. And Katara, despite her position with the press, had yet to read any original copies of historical texts from over ninety years ago. Poetry had been salvaged, sure. But political paperwork was another story entirely.

"The Avatar is… a demigod. A fable. I think he was constructed to bring hope to the starving nations of the world. That's only what I've read, though."

"A demigod," repeated Gyatso. "A powerful bender."

"I'm sure you know more than I do," the young woman ventured. She laughed, "You've probably met the Avatar!"

Without hesitation, he answered, "I have."

She wasn't sure if Gyatso said this in jest or if he had, in fact, met the Avatar in the flesh. His confession startled her. These days, bending was all but extinct. It was a sport now, something to gawk at in an arena. The traditional meditative benefits of bending were ignored after the war. The Fire Nation made the spiritual gift seem more like a curse. The world had succumbed under fire, spit from the mouths of benders, thrown from the fists of soldiers. Entire races vanished from the face of the earth. Despite its defensive magnitude, no one found any romanticism in bending after those fifty years.

"The Avatar is alive and well today," Gyatso continued. "Magnificent changes are on the horizon for this world. For this press. So I hope you will keep your eyes and heart open, my dear."

It sounded apologetic to Katara; it was as if he was telling her to stay on board despite the change of plans. She had never imagined leaving, but if there was a way to cement her here further, he had succeeded. "Yes, sir," she whispered. "Of course. Always. It's a journalist's only responsibility."

"You are a bender yourself, are you not?"

"Yes," answered Katara, looking at her shoes. Her famed T. Lee heels, a gift to herself. They added an extra four inches but killed her back. Worth it, she thought, to get a few inches on Suki. "Well, genetically. From my mother's side. But I am not even a novice."

"Did you know," he started, "that I am an airbender?"

"I heard rumors. I didn't imagine they'd be true."

Gyatso smiled, a white gleam of mischievousness in his eyes. "I am. And I am off for now. It's almost five – I don't want to keep you." He stood up with some difficulty and reached for his cane. Instead of grabbing it, though, he sucked it towards his palm – a brief, hardly noticeable gust of air. Had he not admitted to being a bender, she probably wouldn't have noticed it. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she caught herself. She stood abruptly and hugged him as he parted.

"Is that what you wanted to see me about, Master Gyatso?"

"No," he returned over his shoulder. "I just wanted to sit with you. I missed you this week. Had I not seen you in your office," he concluded, "I would have thought you left us for good."

She had to smile at that – albeit a little sad, a little angry. She loved Gyatso in a way she could not explain. It was as if she could never harbor any grand resentment against him. His interest in the Avatar, however, was new. What had he read? When had he met the Avatar? Katara thought it might be a recent event, but if so, why hadn't she heard about it sooner?

As if on cue, as Gyatso disappeared at the end of the hall, Aang Yangchen materialized at the other end of it; she craned her neck just in time. She had written the cliché so often before without fully understanding it; but, at long last, her heart fell to her knees. He waved excitedly and smiled with all his teeth. He held his coffee cup to her as he approached her. She cursed it, but felt it long before he was close enough for her to touch. She was – undeniably, embarrassingly – wet.


	6. Fears

The office at daybreak was the same. This, more than his bare shoulder blade in her periphery, or the obscene clarity of the night before, startled her most of all. Nothing had changed. Her files were on the floor near them, above their heads. Her chair was facing the window. The window framed a peachy, bright dawn, which she would have liked to watch were she not naked, wrapped up with an almost stranger, an almost boss.

Facing her, he had encased her in his arms, the flex of his neck against her cheek. His blazer covered their waists. Their legs were bare. She blushed remembering she had worn pants yesterday because she was running late and did not shave. She knew Aang Yangchen did not notice the stubble on her legs, though she had noticed his own. Suddenly she felt embarrassed, as if such an outburst necessitated perfection, or ceremony – or as if she was not permitted to be so near to him, to notice the mole on his arm, or the rhythm of his breath – silently violent, sonorous. She thought, even in sleep, he sounded like a man.

With some difficulty, Katara Kuruk detached from him, untangled her legs and arms with the precision of a spider. She searched for her blouse. No, no – panties first. Where had he thrown those? And the bra? The desk… beneath the desk. She fished the delicates from the carpet, agitated, thinking again and again: this office is the same. She wanted to state it to bring it into reality but did not want to wake him. This office is the same, nothing has changed, but there are clothes on the floor, and some files that dropped from the desk, and there is his sock, and a loafer overturned, and one of her earrings. Fortunate, she thought as she fastened it in her earlobe, that she had found it so easily again. Out of habit from living with her bother, she picked up his clothes too and folded them, placed them in a neat pile on the corner of her desk. She left his blazer, draped over his behind, and watched him as she drank from the cooler.

She anticipated a silence in which she could think – at the very least, prepare – but he inadvertently denied her that. Shortly after tossing her paper cup in the recycling bin, he stirred, turned to his back and searched for his boxers, frantic but attempting to douse his panic with a yawn.

Katara handed his clothing to him and turned away, allowing him to dress. She crossed her arms and searched out of the corner of her eye. "The office is the same," she said aloud, needing to hear it was so. "My office. It's the same."

He zipped his pants and asked after clearing his throat, "Have you seen sunrise from your office before?"

"When I started here. A long time ago."

"This is the first time I've seen it. You have a good view." He put his hands on his hips and faced the morning, which filled the room with bright pink light. When Katara turned around, she marveled again at his shoulders and back. A good view indeed. But now he was dressed – a little wrinkle here and there, but dressed. His pants were still pressed, straight-legged. Gray pants, bright yellow shirt. She had witnessed the breadth of Aang's ankles and calves last night, a surprise to find such a sinewy, athletic body beneath dress clothes that always looked a size too big. When had she been this desirous? When had she wanted something as much and taken it – without asking permission, or considering the facts, the outcomes? Her head throbbed and she suddenly wished for a hangover. A few shots would have made last night forgivable, at least. She shot a glance to the door. They hadn't even made it that far.

"I – um. I'm going to make coffee," she announced. He turned to face her. "And then I'm going to go – uh, I'm going to drive home and take the day off. To think? I think."

"Oh," he answered. "I should probably leave too, huh? Take the day off? Or at least change."

"No – no! Both of us can't take the day off." She busied herself with the coffee maker. In her agitation she had ripped the last paper filter in half, and was digging in the cabinet beneath the counter to find the new pack. He bent down to her level and reached far back for her, presenting the new filters without a word.

"You're right. That might be bad," he agreed, filling the pot with water. "Gyatso needs us today to set up meetings for his project. It's Friday, right? We should get started before the week is over so –"

"What the actual _fuck_."

"Excuse me?"

"I can't believe – Spirits! Aang, you're talking work? Look at this place!" She extended her arms about her. She pointed behind her to the glass walls. She had yet to put on her blouse and Aang found he loved her in her undershirt, her makeup smeared, her breath sour, her wild hair ambushing the delicate ledges of her clavicles. She was a goddess. Simultaneously, he felt blessed and remarkably stupid.

"Okay. I know," he started, shaking his head. "I know –"

"No!" she stopped him. "You really_ don't_ know. We – I – I fucked up. I'm sorry. I will not swear. I let myself get this far… We _messed_ up." She held her head in her hands as the coffee pot gurgled with fresh brew. The familiar sloshes and aroma of the coffee calmed her. "I messed up. Mr. Yanchen. I messed up. Last night… the walls are _glass_ for Spirit's sake. Who knows who saw us. And what we did in here… again and again. That… I'm so sorry." She stepped away from him and bowed deep. She clasped her hands together, kept her gaze off of him. "Mr. Yangchen, with all of the respect I lacked last night, please believe that I have never done such a reckless, inconsiderate – inappropriate! – thing in my entire career. I have absolutely no intention to start now, and –"

"Hey. Okay, hold on." He tried to move his face so that she would look at him, but when she continually refused, he reached for her desk chair and sat in it, then looked up at her. She smiled, her lips full, a little white line of drool still in the corner of her mouth. She was red. Her blue eyes crinkled at him. She was looking at him now. Time to think.

"I… I wanted to do… what we did," he said slowly, picking his words with care. He did not want to say 'mistake' or 'bad.' He did not want to apologize, because he was not sorry. He observed, with awe and gratitude, that his words had embarrassed her, and she turned away again. "Was it the most graceful thing? No…" He rubbed his knees, wishing for a cup of coffee. He felt groggy and exhausted, still anxious enough to be on edge. "I am just over six feet tall... to be honest with you, I can't do much with grace. And for a while, as a kid, everything I did looked stupid. So I know it's hard for you to believe, but I am not inappropriate either. I have never… went with a feeling. That far. Um." He pulled the collar of his dress shirt away with a single finger. "Is the coffee done?"

For a small while, they sipped in silence, the paper cups burning their fingers. It was 5:45 a.m., a Friday. No one would arrive until at least 8:00 a.m., which left them a little time. Sokka hadn't called her the night before, and neither had Suki, which led Katara to assume they had also spent the night together. It was the only time she got away from those two.

Aang, meanwhile, spun slowly on her chair, his long legs outstretched, shoeless. His socks matched, Katara noticed, while Sokka's never did. His pants had somehow remained pressed. Despite herself, and her mental warnings to stop, she found she could easily admire him. But she also found she loathed him, or perhaps a better word was 'regret.' Regret him? Last night was so… no, no. She punished herself and blocked describing the memory. Instead she blurted, "You're my boss. My new boss."

"I should have been more responsible, I know that," he stated suddenly, pulling her from her own thoughts. "But nothing has changed. This office is the same. And I still respect you… I still think you are beautiful. I've always thought that. I thought it the day I met you."

"Which was only a couple of weeks ago," she reminded bitterly, too angered by herself to appreciate his compliment.

"Before that too. When I met you as an intern during the summer. Remember? We worked on a project together."

There had, in fact, been a day – a single day – where Gyatso told Aang to help Katara compile research for a grant she was proposing. It had taken them two hours total. They stayed in the same room and barely spoke. He helped her but he hadn't alphabetized his findings, which she had done herself, homage to some ancient perfectionist tick inside of her.

"The children's rights meta-analysis, that's right." She looked far away and smiled. "You remember that?"

"Yes. We worked in Ms. Kyoshi's office, and when we finished, I knew you'd want me to alphabetize them, because I had studied your proposals before… but I didn't do it on purpose. I just left them in the order I found them." His voice grew quieter then, and he looked at his feet. "I wanted you to call me back in so I could stay for longer. But you're so hardworking… and you did it all yourself."

"That's no reason not to do it!" she exclaimed, but when she turned to him, she felted warm and reassured. She teased without meaning to, "You liked me."

"I like you," he corrected.

"I like you too. As my boss."

"I would also like a boss who entertained me for most of the night!" he laughed. He winked at her and she felt shy again, as if he had ordered her to a time-out in primary school.

"Inappropriate, Mr. Yangchen."

He stood up. She thought, perhaps he was trying to intimidate her with his size. Without her heels on, he stood almost two heads above her. At five foot two, she was not the most impeding Publications Manager in the world. Somehow his stunt worked, and the fight that had been aggregating in her heart fizzled out after he stood.

"I told you. I like you. I respect you. You are an incredible woman."

"I'm older than you. I work for you. I'm a professor with a reputation. And I'm divorced."

"Frankly, _Dr. Kuruk_, I don't care."

"I'm divorced!" she reiterated. "You aren't going to ask?"

He shook his head stubbornly. "Your past is your business."

"I have a daughter," she lied, and imagined Lin-Lin scribbling on the walls of her apartment, the last time she had seen her before Jet had taken her to live with her birth mother. "I have a daughter who is almost seven years old."

"I would love to meet her," Aang returned. He slipped on his loafers and reached for his blazer. He put it to his nose and smiled wide at her. "I like your perfume."

"That blazer was on my ass!"

"Not the whole night," he laughed. "But I like your ass too."

"No, you don't! This needs to stop. Mr. Yangchen! Please understand where I'm coming from. This is completely inappropriate. Everything about this… this could end my career." She touched him for the first time that morning. She had marched over to him and jabbed his chest with her fingers. "I can't do this!" she cried. "I won't do this! I won't get fired because I decided to undress for you. It isn't fair. I've given my life to this press, I've dedicated hours to –"

He had taken her hands and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. She was stunned herself when she did not fight him. "You think I am younger than you," he whispered, still holding her, "but I am not. You think you are jeopardizing your career by giving yourself space to love me, but you are not."

"Love you?"

"Yes. Only not just in the way we loved each other last night, Katara."

"Dr. Kuruk."

"Katara," he insisted.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You are hostile," he observed. "You want to hurt me."

"I'd like for you to leave," she said. "That's all."

He kissed her again, slowly, and she let herself be kissed, and then she kissed back. He accepted the invitation to kiss her longer, deeper, and he moaned slow into her mouth, relishing her taste. She had denied herself the margin to describe him for too long, but she couldn't anymore. He was good. Good God, he was good. He had been good last night for hours. He kissed her as though he knew her, as though he had studied the structure of her mouth for years and devised a map of nerves to touch. His mouth was soft. The stubble on his chin made her shiver, made her back arch, made her feel vulnerable for him, and small.

In the way an eager child breaks a toy, he released her wrists long enough to open her pants. Instead of stopping him, Katara wondered why pants made for women came with a zipper. To imitate those of men? What purpose could the zipper serve, other than to break, which is certainly what Aang Yangchen just did with those large fingers of his – the way it sounded. She was doing it again, she realized. Distracting herself. He walked her towards the desk and pulled her on top of it with the same ease he had exhibited last night. Her pants fell. He did not bother to remove her panties or undress himself. With ease, he pulled down his fly, removed the erection from his boxers, and pulled the pink fabric to one side of her thigh. He wanted to enter her slowly, so he lingered at first so that she could stop him if she wanted. He stopped kissing her. He examined her face. With great care, he held her head in his hand, his thumb on her cheek. With the other hand, he guided himself, stroked himself against her, unhurried, gentle. Meanwhile he licked her lips as if he had coated her in sugar, leaving no space uncovered. When she did not refuse him or push him away, he held her backside with both hands and pushed his hips against the table as far as he could go. She cried into his shoulders. He pulled back, a small watermark on the front of his pants from her, circumscribing the fly like a seal. He pushed deep again and bit her shoulder with the tips of his teeth. She wrapped her legs around his waist and fell backward for him. He stopped, but she mouthed, "More," and he smiled so wide she thought he might burst. He mouthed, "Thank you," and continued, slow. Paced. He said, his eyes not leaving hers, "Good morning."

And he says he isn't graceful, she thought miserably, already on the cusp of orgasm.

* * *

_i realize how long i've been away, and i'm so grateful to those of you who have stayed with me. i hope this sexy scene made up for my absence! make my day by reviewing! much love, gg scorpiaux _


	7. Discreet

_hi all - i want to thank you for sticking with me, i realize how slowly i update compared to others. i wish i can say my work is worth the wait.. and i also wish i had the stamina and patience to update every week. writing has unfortunately taken a backseat in my life. _

_this chapter was ill-devised and half-baked when i decided to include it, so your thoughts would be greatly appreciated 3 xoxo scorpiaux _

* * *

The disadvantage for Katara Kuruk – now wearing sunglasses in her office to hide bags, and downing espresso after espresso – was that she loved her work so much that she could not take recreational days. At 5:53 a.m. this morning she had permitted Aang Yangchen one last, satisfying romp – in which, in the absence of condoms – he had removed himself and finished in an old pile of reports nearby. He had done the same last night on a series of old reports, some she had gleaned from Gyatso (she shivered), others she had taken over for Suki (she winced). Aang Yangchen relieved himself on these reports repeatedly. She was in awe at his precision timing. A moment after she had crumpled with pleasure and cried in that whispery, grateful way, he would remove himself and ruin another projections report with the combined effort of his swift fist and ready erection. It was not the most responsible course of action, she knew, but in a pinch, old reports do serve some purpose.

To ease her tension at the mishap (she was now calling it the mishap), she acted as though it never occurred. This was necessary for immediate recovery. She could not miss a day just because she had undressed for what would soon become her boss, and in the moments after Aang left her office – approximately 6:17 a.m., more than 12 hours after his initial arrival – she knew that she wouldn't go home just to collect herself. It was lazy. Unethical (she had to pause here and smile at her own hypocrisy). She sighed, "One second you're on the floor with your teeth in your boss's shoulder, the next you're deciding a day off is unethical." A word she didn't like to use, but in this instant, it was the only way she could describe herself. Unethical. Lacking ethics or class, attacking Aang Yangchen with the haughty yearning of a teenager.

Instead, she freshened up in the company lavatory, splashed cold tap water on her face and retrieved her extra make-up bag from her top desk drawer. She wore only her undershirt and blazer – the blouse was wrinkled beyond hope of repair without an iron, and she figured so long as she stayed at her desk, no one would notice the deep wrinkles on her pant legs. She took canisters of disinfectant wipes and scrubbed down her office again and again, in small, concentrated circles, tempted to use the disinfectant on herself. She threw all the ruined reports in the wastebasket, mildly horrified at how many there were. She blinked in a new set of contact lenses, an emergency pair for late working nights. She did her best not to send her gaze out of the office, afraid to catch sight of him or Gyatso or Suki, or any of the numerous figures she'd helped Gyatso employ.

Now she worked, writing in prospective authors to contact and cross-referencing their pieces. She tried not to focus on the soreness, the dehydration aggravated by caffeine, or her impending exhaustion, though at times she felt she needed a nap or a good slap to the face. A marathon that fantastic would have justified hours of sleep and a well-deserved brunch for both parties. Instead they celebrated with a sixth round of sex this morning and hysterical, hasty expulsion from her uncomfortable office. A "sort of" plan of action not to discuss it further until the weekend gave way. And a few longing looks that both tried to guise as ensuring the other looked presentable.

"Should I take the day off?" Aang had inquired again at the door. "What do you think?"

"I don't care what you do, Mr. Yangchen," she reiterated. "But I am staying. And as far as I'm concerned, I don't know you."

"Right, right," he agreed. "I was never inside this office. Or inside you."

She threw a pen at him.

Now, Katara was so focused on completing her work, so dead set on finishing everything she had to do and remembering nothing of what she had done, that she did not notice Meng standing at the glass doors.

The girl let herself in and sat across from Katara, putting one leg over the other. Meng was a sizable girl and the maneuver gave Katara a sore glance at the fleshy thighs beneath Meng's skirt, a strained fabric clearly intended for the hips of a smaller woman.

"You didn't knock," Katara reacted.

"Yeah. I did."

Meng had only visited her office twice. Once when Gyatso employed her so that Katara could finish her employment paperwork (similar to what she had done for Aang), and another time when Katara had threatened to fire her and Gyatso forced them to have a tête-à-tête to come to some sort of compromise. Katara promised not to push Meng to do more than three tasks a day, and Meng promised to no longer walk in to work two hours late. The compromise lasted less than a week. Then they were each back to their previous compositions.

They did not function well together. What Katara thought to be intentional incompetence and laziness, Gyatso considered restless, daydreaming youth and honest mistakes. Meng never finished projects Katara assigned, or she did them incorrectly and feigned interest in fixing them. Often she would glare at the Water Tribe native from her own secretary's desk outside of Gyatso's office, her eyes not leaving Katara's face until Katara was forced to mouth, "What?" or lift her hand in inquiry. "I'm on to her," Katara would tell Suki. "She thinks she's on to me," Meng puffed in disgust to whoever would listen.

This morning, though, Katara did not have the energy to go up in arms. Her battlements faltered and she willingly took the high road. In as friendly a tone as she could contrive, she smiled and answered, "I must not have heard it. What can I do for you, Meng?"

"Gyatso sent me," Meng snorted. "You'd think I'd willingly come by?" She gave Katara an all-star sarcastic smile. Her teeth were generously spaced, gaps wide enough for paperclips to edge through.

That was cheeky, her superior thought. Mean and disobedient. Meng's insolence was always unwelcome, and if Katara weren't out of sorts, she'd have lashed out right back. Stupid twerp can't be polite even when she's getting paid to be, she thought. But she said, shrugging sweetly, "I'm sorry he made you trek the few meters over here. It's quite a walk, especially for–"

"Why are you wearing sunglasses?" Meng intruded suddenly. "Are you hung-over? Eyes red from smoking fire leaf? If you know where I can get some…"

"Okay, that's quite enough." Katara stood and removed her sunglasses. "You would do well to hold your tongue, Ms. Wu. None of the above." That had struck a nerve. Meng was talking to her like a fellow 19-year-old, but Katara didn't like the familiarity, and her questions came with a lilt that suggested Meng already knew the answer. "You'll tell me why Gyatso sent you so that you can be on your way. No more of this tone. Understand?"

Meng put her hands up in defense, the fleshy meat of her shoulders and arms reminding Katara of older women. She did not apologize.

"What can I do for him?" Katara walked over to the bookshelf at the back of the office, anticipating sending over a file that the airbender had mentioned earlier in the week. Some of the contemporary Water Tribe poets were meeting for a conference in the North Pole this winter on the solstice, and the press was interested in publishing their collaborative pieces. "Does he want the collab work up? I can give you what I have, but Ms. Kyoshi has most of it."

"That's it exactly," Meng stated from behind her.

"Fine, fine." Katara reached for the top shelf and pulled out the file. She handed it to Meng from across her desk.

The girl got up and made her way out before stopping at the door. She froze and turned around. "Oh, wait. He wanted one more thing."

"What's that?" Irritated, Katara peeked up from her paperwork. Meng marched to her again and threw the file on the desktop in front of her supervisor. Stunned, Katara stood immediately, ready to return all of Meng's assaults this morning.

"He wants to know why you were screwing his successor in here last night," Meng jeered. "You think you have an answer to that, _Dr. Kuruk_?"

It was rehearsed. Something Meng had stated in the bathroom mirror at home, glad to finally have some dirty, ruinous secret on her boss. Her gapped smile made Katara's sensitive, empty stomach flip. All that she could think to do was veil herself in denial.

"_Excuse_ me?"

"I know what happened," Meng returned, not moving from her spot. They didn't shift an inch, each staring right through the other.

"Wow - you are crossing the line here."

"Not as big a line as you crossed last night. And you know it."

"Is this what goes on in that twisted teenaged imagination of yours? People 'screwing' in this office? Please! You need to do us all a favor and grow up."

"Hmm." Meng rested her palms on Katara's desk and leaned closer. Katara caught a whiff of smoke and morning breath. "You're pretty good at doing favors. Maybe you can teach me." She gave Katara a clueless, cruel look. "Are you trying to weasel your way into a promotion? Or are you just as big of a whore as you look?"

In the silence that ensued, Katara turned her face to the window. She hissed clearly, emphasizing each syllable, "You need to get out." She felt her temples throb. "Now."

"That's not a very polite way of asking."

"Oh, you damn well will, or I swear on your ancestors' graves that I'll make you."

"I'm going to tell him, Katara," Meng said, shifting back to her feet. She had never looked more sinister, her lips pulled to the right side of her face in a contorted pout, her eyes dark with a wisdom that was as embarrassing as it was catastrophic.

"Tell who what? You'll be reporting on an imagined event." Her face felt hot. The emptiness of her stomach suddenly bothered her more than Meng's startling accusations – albeit correct and potentially dangerous, she felt nauseated at the news most of all. The coffee, espresso, and ice water she drank earlier sloshed around her gut as she stood. "Are you trying your hand at extortion? A modern witch-hunt? You're failing. Miserably. You can't blackmail me for something I didn't do."

"I saw it," Meng answered with clarity. "The whole thing, unfortunately. Well, the parts that matter. I was in here doing work you assigned, forcing me to stay late on a Thursday because you had to just get _everything_ in by the end of the week." Meng unwrapped a stick of gum and pressed it into her mouth, aware of how much it bothered Katara. Letting the wrapper fall to the floor, she popped the gum as she spoke. "You did a terrible job of being discreet."

"You didn't see anything," Katara spat, attempting to keep her voice down. "You're delusional. A drugged up teenager from the state university who just happens to be one of Gyatso's 'damaged youth' projects, a fixer-upper with a bad attitude and no marketable skills."

"Harsh," feigned Meng, closed-lipped. But Katara saw her chin tremble with the effort of not returning fire. She didn't want to take this route, but with Meng's disrespectful name-calling and threats, she felt she had little choice.

"You're addicted to fire leaf and fried dumplings and spiked cola. I know your type. Insecure and malicious, conspiring against anyone who tries to better you because you don't want to believe that you need fixing." Katara shook her head, smiling, and sighed loudly, finally bending to take her seat, relief washing over her. "Guess what? I'm not afraid of you, little girl. I'm a decade older than you are. Absolutely nothing happened in here. It's your word against mine. I win."

When Meng did not respond, Katara turned her attention to the work on her desk. She remembered Aang Yangchen's kind regard for Meng, how he tried to defend her when he'd frist come to her office. "Show yourself out," she ordered flatly. "If Gyatso doesn't need the collab work up, I'll continue putting it together today."

"I – I know what I saw," Meng said at last, her voice flickering.

"Another thing," Katara called after her. "Come back at 4:00 and pick up your dismissal request. You're fired."


	8. Grapevine

On Saturday, after canceling her weekly brunch tradition with Suki, Katara sat at the old dining room table she and her brother shared. It was the only relic in their otherwise new apartment, a scavenger find back when Sokka was living alone. Katara had saved the painter from a would-be myriad of mismatched furniture, pieces he'd curated during his college days. Prior to dropping out, he'd comb the dormitories of seniors, the apartments of graduate students, looking for freebies, for steals. A blender here for mixing paint, a set of old combs for assaulting a canvas. When Katara moved in, she got rid of his bright pink sofa, the tweed futon, the ottoman with the missing peg leg, embroidered to resemble a pirate flag. But the oak table, Sokka insisted on keeping. It was where he painted his smaller canvas pieces. Plus, he argued, Katara could do her work there. The chairs were sturdy and comfortable - not a common combination - and besides, "It's not like we're hosting dinner parties here ever." It was true. They had their grandmother's old house in the north for that, ornate enough to host dozens.

Over coffee now, Katara tried to feel some iota of guilt for firing Meng, but found she could muster none. The prospect of no longer seeing her at work was a comforting one. She actually felt worse for canceling plans with Suki. Saturday brunch had been a tradition since Suki'd got the job at Gaoxing Lunwen about four years ago. Katara stood when she heard a rattle at the door.

"Yoo-hoo! O Sacred Virgin Water Tribe!" Suki had already made her way to the kitchen, cradling two mason jars with homemade mimosas and a full burlap bag.

"How many times do I have to tell you," Katara said by way of greeting, kissing the woman on the cheek. "That key's for emergencies. And I'm not a virgin - much less sacred."

"I would disagree with the latter." She dropped the goods on the dining room table. Mimosa jars, a baguette, pate, brie, and jam. Plastic tupperware with boiled eggs and olives inside. A container of fresh berries in rich white cream. Olive oil in disposable packets and a few printed picnic napkins.

"Suki! What's all of this?"

"Our brunch, _mon cherie_," Suki called from the kitchen. "When you chickened out, I had to bring it to you. Where are your butterknives?"

"They're hanging in a gallery somewhere." A month ago, Sokka had welded all the butterknives together to resemble an imploding bell. Katara had yet to replace them. "The steak knives are in the drawer near the sink."

Suki cut the bread and scooped the brie from its wheel, opened the jam and the jars of mimosas. Katara could hear a teapot start to bubble on the stove. Suki sat across from her, purred as she bit into a slice of loaded baguette. Wiping the crumbs from her mouth and spilling some when she spoke, she said, appropriately, "OK. Spill."

"Can we give the journalist in you a break?" Katara picked at her plate without interest. The gesture was sweet; Suki never took no for an answer, one of the reasons she and Sokka had survived so many fights. But Katara had hoped for a morning alone to process the week, and she felt uneasy with Suki here. She was too insightful, too clever. She could uncover anything, pull it from its roots before it ever became news. It was not like confiding in Sokka, who half-listened and half-assed half-listening. In the mornings, she'd air her grievances as the coffee brewed and he'd grumble in agreement, unable to ignore her in the small apartment space, forgetting all that she'd recited immediately.

"You can't finally fire that little pudgy nightmare without questions." Suki licked her fingers and pressed them to the loose morsels on her plate. "Even Head Fossil was surprised. And he doesn't have much of those left." She imitated Gyatso's worried brows and solemn pursed lips. "He walked in there like, 'Has anyone seen the secretary, at all?' And Sen was like, 'Katara fired her!' His eyes went up a whole millimeter, like this." Suki trembled an eyebrow in jest. "You made headlines, woman."

Katara, unfazed, grinned at the impression and sipped from her mimosa jar. "It was overdue."

"Stone cold!" Suki hooted. "Who knew you had it in you?"

"What," Katara laughed. "It's true. What was she adding to the office? Honestly? Absolutely nothing. Besides," she concluded, finishing off her icy drink, "it falls under my jurisdiction. Aang told me so himself after he memorized all of our jobs like a robot."

At the mention of the successor's name, Suki's eyes widened and found Katara's. They held them there, less than a second, just long enough to watch the blue gaze dart back to the table and observe the clean borders of her untouched plate. She said, her voice clear and definite though she was not sure what she was asking, "You did it for him?"

"He didn't tell me to do it. That's not what I meant."

"I know he didn't tell you to." Suki opened a packet of olive oil and smothered it on another slice of bread. She called after Katara, who had opportunely ran into the kitchen to tend to the thinly whistling kettle, "Then what do you mean?"

"I just mean he knows our jobs really well, and when I called him into my office to finish his citizenship stuff, he reminded me that I'm her boss, not Gyatso. No directly, at least. I mean" — she had appeared in the doorway now, two mugs of steaming chai in her hands; she leaned her weight in the frame connecting the kitchen to the dining space and continued — "I love the man. He knows it. Had I been born two hundred years earlier, we might have been lovers." Suki snapped in appreciation as Katara set down her tea. "But he doesn't have any balls. No initiative. He keeps things the old way. No computers in the office except for that monster in the printing hall. No networks, no cellphones at work. We still use an espresso machine from before the Great War. It doesn't make any sense. And now with Aang…"

She was bringing him up again, she knew, a dangerous thing to do with Suki, who had already picked up on it. Each time she said Aang's name, Suki's eyes caught hers, darting by just quickly enough to notice any drift in Katara's demeanor. Unbeknownst to Katara, Suki was already aware of the affair - or, at least, she could smell the inklings of it. Each time, Aang's name was accompanied by a small, private smile - nothing obtuse, nothing pushy. She said his name now ready to rant, to argue about his addition as successor _just _because he was part of the old nation of Air Nomads, another grievance about Gyatso's obsession with all things not of this modern world. But she paused. She paused just long enough to sip the boiling chai and imagine him, taste him in her memory or imagine tasting him now. And Suki saw it, and said nothing, as she continued.

"He brings this twenty-nothing year old out of the blue, ties a tie around his neck and asks him to spread his legs and sit like a man. There are over seventy people working for him, and I'll be damned if he has a clue."

"You sound like you've talked to him," Suki suggested, wedging a toothpick between incisors. "He might be more qualified than you think."

"He isn't," she asserted, her certainty giving her away.

"He has you, though," Suki said, trying to stay light. "You could help him run things. Who knows," she shrugged. "It might end up being too much for the poor wittle baby. Then when he goes home crying, you'll be here to pick up where he left off."

Katara was silent; she hadn't considered the probability of Aang leaving, and Suki noted the instant drop in her face - however brief - despite the fact that the resulting disappearance would put her in charge of the press.

"Oh, God, Katara!" Suki cried, her hands over her mouth in mock horror. "Jezebel, you fucked him, didn't you?"

Her face reddened without her consent, and she rolled her eyes in the face of being found out. Jezebel was Suki's self-imposed 'slut-shame-name,' a code they used when they wanted to gossip around Sokka or in the office. After a night of dancing and staying out, Suki would return to work with a smile and stories of Jezebel's endeavors. Katara, who partook in fewer adventures, did the same.

"It's always cops and robbers with you," fumed Katara. "When do I stop being a culprit?"

"When you stop romping around with all the hot young things!" Suki was clapping. She wiggled her hips seductively as she cleared the table. "This is great! Sen owes me fifty yen. We made bets as soon as he landed here."

"Suki, no! You can't tell Sen! You can't tell anyone."

"Then how do I collect my money?"

"You don't!"

"OK, I don't think you get it. This is the first bet I've won a bet against that clairvoyant little bitch."

"Spirits. And you bet _against_ me?"

"I knew my girl was overdue for some action." Suki winked from the doorway. She dropped the dishes in the sink and refilled her chai. On her return, Katara had her head down in her hands, her forehead pressed to the flat expanse of her knuckles.

"This is literally a nightmare."

"Gyatso would be a nightmare," Suki corrected.

"What are people going to say when they find out?" When Katara looked up, her eyes were strained. "I turn twenty-eight in a few months, Suki. He just turned twenty-three a second ago. I don't know what I was thinking."

Suki asked without hesitation, "Was he good at least?"

"Can we please focus on how terrible this has the potential to be?"

"It's an honest question. Let's focus on how good it was first, then how terrible."

"He was good. Whatever. What twenty-three-year-old isn't?"

"Most," said Suki, wincing in reverie. "They come too fast. Want to impress you so they try weird porn things that no one does. You're their first or second or third lover so in their mind, it's still a show."

"_Where_ do you spend your weekends? Getting this information?"

"I stay at home," Suki laughed. "They come to mama. Sokka has his butterflies, I have my bees. I used to get jealous - now I get laid. But this is about you."

"It was an accident, Suki. With Aang. I don't know what happened. One second we're doing paperwork, and then I started thinking how long it's been since… I don't know, it started with his stupid lip."

"His lip?" Suki raised a brow. "He kissed you when you were doing paperwork? That's bold."

"No - no, that's not what I mean. He was just sitting there, and I started looking at him. And he has a… a nice lip. It sounds dumb. But. You know, one of those lips you just… you just want to have it. Not have, like, for yourself, as your own lip, but just… to own as, as an item…" She was staring through Suki, out the window leading to the street below. It was the least articulate statement she'd made all morning, somehow also the heaviest. She did not know herself what it was about Aang Yangchen that had caused her to dribble and crave like a teenager; she felt it was more than physical but could not say what. They lived above a busy neighborhood, a grocery and coffee shop at the corner, an elementary school down the block. Outside, she heard the honks of irritated drivers navigating the narrow roadway, barks from eager dogs. She trailed off thinking of that day, her own lip forming her trademark pout, the small beautiful circle Aang Yangchen had also fallen in love with during that same meeting.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah," she said, shaking her head. "Sorry."

"Look, you're my girl. If you like this guy, I say, date him. So what if he's the successor? You'll still be the one wearing the pants. Plus, he's adorable. You hit the jackpot in the looks department. Hands down."

"That's the thing," Katara returned, "I don't know if I like him. We just know we like each other…"

"Naked?"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's stop sensationalizing it."

Suki hit a low, confidential tone. "Where'd you guys do it?"

"In my office…" Katara admitted miserably in a whisper. "Thursday night."

"And Meng saw you." Suki connected the dots, stirred a lump of sugar into her remaining chai. "She was there on Thursday doing work. I saw her before I left. That's why you fired her? Wow…" She hesitated, shaking her head. "I'm all for dirty work environments. But with your moral compass, I can't believe you'd fire her over that. She's not really at fault."

"Nothing gets past you," Katara sighed, crossing her arms. "She did see us. That's what she says. But I fired her because she confronted me about it and tore me down in my office. I think she must've had a crush on him, maybe wanted to move up the ranks. Who knows."

"Or she just hated you. But, whatever she wanted, it's dead. Cheers to you, Jezebel."

"OK, enough."

Suki was laughing. "Why on _earth_ would you cancel brunch with me today? We covered so much!" She spread her arms out, the sun pouring through the open blinds, making her forearms appear golden.

Sokka's voice answered instead: "Suki's here?" His room was attached to the kitchen, an extension added by the landlord for his then-growing family. He had used the bigger bedroom as his studio, giving the master bedroom to Katara, the current breadwinner. He was careful to always use "current," his way of promising business would pick up. He grabbed a mug of coffee and sat at the table with them without invitation.

"Ah, here we see the painter in his natural habitat." Suki made her forefingers and thumbs into a camera frame. "Notice the unshaved, wary look, dim prospects for this season's best work. Teeth have not been brushed. Hair is to one side —"

"OK, I get it, I get it!" Sokka laughed. "Let me finish my coffee, woman."

"Finish. And then I expect to see some husband material at the table."

"Don't scare him, now." Katara grinned and turned to her brother. "Husband in this context means you shave."

"Message received." Sokka took Katara's full plate from in front of her and started eating, a piece of fruit already in his cheek as he asked, "You're done with this?"

Katara left them at the table to check her phone. She'd been aware of it buzzing earlier while confiding in Suki but hadn't had the urge to check, hoping it was not Aang and dreading it would be. Instead, she had several messages from Gyatso - out of the ordinary for him - and only a single message from the successor, still dated from last night.

"Hey Suki," Katara called, "did Gyatso call or text you this morning?"

"No," Suki answered. "Head Fossil knows how to text?"

"He knows you call him that?" Sokka wanted to know.

"He says he wants to see me right away. What do you think?" Katara dreaded what might be coming - that Meng had seen him prior to moving whatever few belongings she had back to her friend's old pickup truck. She was scared for a moment, the news of the affair managing to leak faster than she could control. Suki already in the know, and Meng, and Aang himself. She knew Gyatso had nothing but the utmost respect for her; would that change, she wondered, if he heard a rumor? Saw a surveillance tape?

"I'm heading to the office," Katara called, distractedly gathering her coat and keys. "I'll be back in a few hours. Wish me luck."

But Sokka and Suki were at it again, arguing about his scruff and morning breath, a futile fight that would dissolve with reluctant - then passionate - kisses.


End file.
